by Sue Grafton
None.
Unless she was armed with a camera taking photographs. Solana put a hand to her throat. Suppose she’d seen the photo of the Other at the nursing home and wanted a recent photo of her to compare? She couldn’t take that chance.
Solana went back to the house and locked the front door behind her as though at any minute the authorities would arrive. She went into the kitchen and retrieved a spray bottle of cleanser from under the sink. She wet a sponge, squeezed out the moisture, and then saturated it with the cleaning solution. She began to wipe the place down, erasing all traces of herself, working her way through the house room by room. She’d catch the boys’ rooms later. In the meantime, she’d have to pack. She’d have to get Tiny’s things together. She’d have to get the car filled with gas. On the way out of town, she’d stop and pick up the paintings and take them to a gallery somewhere else. She’d be thorough this time, making no mistakes.
32
According to the restraining order, within twenty-four hours of my being served, I was required to turn in or sell any guns or firearms in my possession. I’m not a nut about guns, but the two I have I’m quite fond of. One is a 9mm Heckler & Koch P7M13; the other, a little Davis .32 caliber semiautomatic. Often I carry one of them, unloaded, in a briefcase in the backseat of my car. I keep ammunition close by as well; otherwise, what’s the point? My favorite gun of all time, the no-brand .32 caliber semiautomatic my aunt Gin had given me, was destroyed in a bomb blast some years before.
Reluctantly, I removed both guns from my office safe. I had two choices in dispossessing myself of my weapons. I could go to the police station and surrender them, watching as they were booked in and I was given a receipt. The problem with this option was that I knew a number of STPD officers and detectives, Cheney Phillips being one. The notion of running into one of them was more than I could bear. I chose instead to hand the guns over to a licensed gun dealer on upper State Street, who completed items 5 and 6 of the form I’d been given, which I then returned to the court clerk for filing. My guns would be returned to me only by judge’s orders.
On the way back to town I stopped at the courthouse and filed a response in opposition to Solana’s temporary restraining order, on the grounds that her assertions were factually untrue. Then I stopped by Lonnie Kingman’s office and had a chat with him. He agreed to go with me for my court date on Tuesday of the following week. “I don’t guess I have to remind you that if you violate the terms of the TRO, you can have your license yanked.”
“I have no intention of violating the court order. How else can I earn a living? I’ve done too many shit jobs in life. I’m partial to my current occupation. Anything else?”
“You might want to line up a couple of witnesses who’ll back up your version of events.”
“I’m sure Henry would be willing. I’ll have to think if there’s anyone else. She was clever about conducting our exchanges in private.”
When I got into the office there was a message from Lowell Effinger’s secretary, Geneva, on my answering machine, saying that Melvin Downs’s deposition subpoena for personal appearance was ready to be picked up. I was antsy anyway, not inclined to sit around the office waiting for the next blow to fall. Oddly enough, Melvin Downs had begun to feel like a pal, and my relationship with him cozy compared to my dealings with Solana, which had gone from bad to disastrous.
I got in the Mustang, made a quick stop at Effinger’s office for the paperwork, and headed for Capillo Hill. I turned left into the alley just shy of Palisade and parked behind the building that housed the laundromat and the dropoff location for Starting Over. The back door to the place was closed, but when I tried the handle it opened easily.
Melvin was perched on a stool at a counter that served as a work space. He’d filled a ceramic mug with lollipops, and I could see the cellophane wrapper he’d removed from the one he had in his mouth. The back rooms were cold and he’d kept on his brown leather bomber jacket. A damp breeze emanating from the laundromat in front smelled of powdered soap, bleach, and cotton garments being tumbled in oversized dryers. On the work space in front of him, there was a dismantled toaster. He’d removed the chassis from the frame. The naked appliance looked small and vulnerable, like a chicken denuded of its feathers. He shook his head slightly when he caught sight of me.
I put one hand in my jacket pocket, more from tension than the chill. In the other, I held the subpoena. “I thought you worked Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Day of the week doesn’t matter much to me. I’ve got nothing else to do.” The lollipop must have been cherry, because his tongue was bright pink. He caught my look and held up the mug, offering me a sucker. I shook my head. The only flavor he’d stocked was cherry and while it was my favorite, it seemed inappropriate to accept anything from him.
“What’s wrong with the toaster?”
“Heating element and latch assembly. I’m just working on the latch.”
“You get a lot of toasters?”
“Those and hair dryers. Nowdays when a toaster goes bad, the first thing you think about is throwing it away. Appliances are cheap and if something breaks down, you buy new. Most of the time, the problem’s as simple as people not bothering to empty the crumb tray.”
“What, the sliding thing underneath?”
“Yes, ma’am. With this one, pieces of bread had fallen into the base and shorted out the heating element. Crumbs were jamming the assembly as well so I had to blow the latch clean and then lubricate it. Once I put it all back together, it should be right as rain. How’d you find me this time?”
“Oh, I have my little ways.”
I watched for a moment, trying to remember when I’d last emptied my crumb tray. Maybe that’s why my toast tended to be burned on one side and soft on the other.
He nodded at the paperwork. “That for me?”
I put it on the counter. “Yes. They’ve scheduled the deposition and this is the subpoena. If you like I can pick you up and bring you back here afterwards. They set it up for a Friday because I told them which days you were busy here.”
“Thoughtful.”
“That’s the best I can do.”
“No doubt.”
My gaze strayed to his right hand. “Tell me something. Is that a prison tattoo?”
He glanced at his tattoo, then put his thumb and index finger together to form a pair of lips, which seemed to part in anticipation of the next question. The eyes permanently inked on his knuckle really did create the illusion of a little face. “This is Tía.”
“I heard about her. She’s cute.”
He held his hand up close to his face. “Did you hear that?” he said to her. “She thinks you’re cute. You want to talk to her?”
He turned his hand and Tía seemed to study me with a certain bright interest. “Okay,” she said. The unblinking black eyes settled on mine. To him she said, “How much can I tell her?”
“You decide.”
“We were inside twelve years,” she said, “which is where we met.”
The falsetto voice he projected seemed real enough to me and I found myself addressing my questions to her. “Here in California?”
She turned and looked at him and then looked back at me. Despite her resemblance to a toothless crone, she managed to appear coy. “We’d prefer not to say. I will tell you this. He was such a good boy, he got out on an early release.” Tía bobbed over to him and gave him a big buss on the cheek. He smiled in response.
“What was he in for?”
“Oh, this and that. We don’t discuss it with people we’ve just met.”
“I figured it was a child molest since his daughter won’t let him see his grandsons.”
“Well, aren’t you quick to condemn,” she said, tartly.
“It’s just a guess.”
“He never laid a hand on those little boys and that’s the truth,” she said, indignant in his behalf.
“Maybe his daughter feels sex offenders aren’t that tr
ustworthy,” I remarked.
“He tried talking her into supervised visits, but she wasn’t having any of it. He did everything he could to make amends, including a little side deal with some unsavory gents.”
“Meaning what?”
Tía tilted her head and gestured me closer, indicating that what she was going to say was highly personal. I leaned down and allowed her to whisper in my ear. I could have sworn I felt her breath stir against my neck. “There’s a house up in San Francisco where they take care of guys like him. Very tacky place. N-O-K-D.”
“Pardon?”
“‘Not our kind, dear.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“Castration.” Tía’s lips pursed at the word. Melvin watched her with interest, his expression blank.
“Like a hospital?”
“No, no. This is a private residence, where certain surgeries are done under the table, as it were. These weren’t licensed medical doctors, just men with tools and equipment who enjoyed cutting and sewing, relieving other fellows of their urges.”
“Melvin volunteered for that?”
“It was a means to an end. He needed to gain control of his impulses, instead of them controlling him.”
“Did it work?”
“In the main. His libido’s down to almost nothing and what desires he has left, he manages to subdue. He doesn’t drink or do drugs because he can’t predict what Demons will emerge. Sly? You have no idea. There’s no way to bargain with the Evil Ones. Once they’re up, they take charge. Sober, he’s a good soul. Not that he’ll ever convince his daughter of that.”
“She’s a hard-hearted girl,” he said.
Tía turned on him. “Hush. You know better. She’s a mom. Her first job is to protect her little kids.”
I spoke to Melvin. “Aren’t you required to register? I called the probation department and they never heard of you.”
“I registered where I was.”
“If you move, you’re supposed to reregister.”
Tía intervened. “Technically, yes, hon, but I’ll tell you how it goes. People find out what he was convicted of. Once they know, the whispering starts and then the outraged parents march up and down outside his house with picket signs. Then the news trucks and the journalists and he never has another moment’s peace.”
I said, “It’s not about him. It’s about the kids he abused. They’ll never get out from under that curse.”
Melvin cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the past. I admit I did things and things were done to me…”
Tía cut in, “That’s right. All he wants to do now is watch over the little ones and keep them safe. What’s wrong with that?”
“He’s not supposed to have contact. He’s not supposed to be within a thousand yards of little kids. No schools, no playgrounds. He knows that.”
“All he does is look. He knows it’s wrong to touch so he doesn’t do that anymore.”
I looked at Melvin. “Why put yourself in harm’s way? You’re like a dry alcoholic working in a bar. The temptation’s right there and a day’s going to come when it’s too much.”
Tía clucked her disapproval. “I’ve told him that a hundred times myself, hon, but he can’t keep away.”
I couldn’t listen to any more of this stuff. “Can we discuss the deposition? You must have questions.”
Melvin’s attention remained fixed on the toaster. “If I agree, what prevents the opposing attorney from going after me? Isn’t that how they do it? You testify to something they don’t like and they turn it back on you. Show you’re a despicable ex-con and no one should listen to a word you say?”
I thought about Hetty Buckwald. “Probably. I won’t lie to you about that. On the other hand, you don’t show up and you’ll be cited for contempt of court.”
Tía bobbed up and down, saying, “Oh please. You think he gives a shit about that?”
“Can’t you talk him into it?”
“Give the man a break. He’s paid enough already.”
I waited, but neither one said another word. I could only push the point so far. I left the subpoena on the counter and went out the front.
Just to make the afternoon perfect, when I reached the office I received a phone call from Melanie Oberlin, who jumped right in. “Kinsey, what the hell is going on? Solana said she had to get a restraining order out on you.”
“Thanks, Melanie. I appreciate the support. Would you like to hear my side of it?”
“Not particularly. She told me you called the county on her and they dismissed the complaint.”
“Did she also mention that a woman named Cristina Tasinato has been appointed Gus’s conservator?”
“His what?”
“I’m assuming you know the term.”
“Well, yes, but why would anyone do that?”
“A better question is, who’s Cristina Tasinato?”
“Okay. Who is she?”
“She and the woman we know as Solana Rojas are the same person. She’s busy working her way through every cent he has. Hold on a second and I’ll check my notes so I can give you the exact figures. Here we go. By way of compensation, she’s submitted invoices to the court for $8,726.73 for Gus’s home care, courtesy of Senior Health Care Management, Inc. That includes paying her half-witted son, who’s posing as an orderly while he sleeps all day long. There’s also an invoice from her attorney for $6,227.47 for ‘professional services’ as of January 15, 1988.”
There was a wonderful moment of silence. “Can they do that?”
“Kiddo, I hate to sound cynical, but the point is to help the elderly with big nest eggs. Why have yourself appointed a conservator for someone living on a fixed income? It makes no sense.”
“This is making me sick.”
“As well it should.”
“But what’s this about the county?”
“That’s the question you started with. I reported Solana to the Tri-Counties Agency for the Prevention of Elder Abuse and they sent out a caseworker to investigate. Solana told the gal she’d begged you repeatedly to come to Gus’s aid, but you refused. She said Gus was incompetent to handle his daily needs and she nominated herself—I should say, Cristina Tasinato—to oversee his affairs.”
“That’s crazy. Since when?”
“A week, maybe ten days ago. Of course everything’s been backdated to coincide, fortuitously, with the phony Solana’s arrival on the scene.”
“I don’t believe this!”
“I didn’t either, but it’s true.”
“You know I never refused to help him. That’s a goddamn lie.”
“As is much of what Solana says about me.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I don’t understand why I’m just now hearing this. You could have warned me.”
I squinted at the phone, amazed at how accurately I’d predicted her reaction. She’d already shifted all the blame to me.
“Melanie, I’ve been telling you Solana was up to something, but you refused to believe me. What’s the point of another call?”
“You’re the one who said she was okay.”
“Right, and you were the one who told me to limit my investigation to her degree, the last place she worked, and a couple of references.”
“I said that?”
“Yes, dear. I make a habit of writing down the instructions I’m given in a case like this. Now will you get off your high horse and help me out?”
“Doing what?”
“For one thing, you could fly out and testify on my behalf when I make my court appearance.”
“For what?”
“The restraining order. I can’t get close to Gus because Solana’s there full-time, but you’re still entitled to see him unless she gets an order out on you. You could also initiate the paperwork challenging her appointment. You’re his only living relative and you’re entitled to a say. Oh, and while I have you on the line, I might as well alert you. Once I type up my report, I’m sending a copy to the DA.
Maybe they can step in and put a stop to her.”
“Fine. Do that. I’ll be out as soon as I can make arrangements.”
“Good.”
That matter taken care of, I put a call through to Richard Compton, who said he’d get in touch with Norman and tell him to give me free rein searching records in the basement of the complex. I gave him a rough estimate of when I’d be there and he said he’d clear it. I had two stops to make before I hit Colgate, the first being the drugstore where I’d left the canister of film the day before. Prints in hand, I drove over to the Sunrise House and pushed through the front door, feeling an easy familiarity since I’d been there before. I’d called in advance and spoken to Lana Sherman, the LVN I’d consulted during the background check on Solana Rojas. She said she could spare me a few minutes as long as no emergencies arose.
In the lobby, the white-flocked artificial Christmas tree had been dismantled and stuffed back in its box until the holidays came around again. On the antique table that served as a reception desk, a white-painted branch had been placed in a Chinese ginger jar and hung with pink and red hearts in honor of Valentine’s Day, coming up in two weeks.
The receptionist directed me to One West, the postsurgery floor. Passing down the hall, I caught sight of Lana in a four-bed ward distributing meds in white pleated paper cups. I waved and pointed, indicating that I’d wait for her at the nurse’s station. I found a molded gray plastic chair in a little visitors alcove and picked up a tattered magazine called Modern Maturity.
Lana appeared moments later, rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the vinyl tile. “I’ve already had my break so I don’t have long.” She sat down in a matching plastic chair next to mine. “So how’s Solana doing with the job?”
